


to live in our world, thoroughly

by royalwisteria



Series: a hogwarts world au [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Gen, occurring entirely in the Great Hall, plus a lot of silly food stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy always gets to breakfast last, hair falling into his eyes, sometimes wet, and Wells always has tea ready for him. Monty is already sipping his, sometimes writing finishing touches on an essay, or helping a friend out with edits. The spot reserved for Bellamy is already heaped with favorites: scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and lots and lots of hash browns. The scones are always Bellamy’s job, and he always take to it with gusto, pressing a couple extra into his best friend’s hands when they leave the Great Hall. Wells eats while reading half the time, reminding them that there are <em>exams</em> coming up, could you please <em>study for once</em>? He makes the best tea in Hufflepuff— likely in the entire school. They’re a trio, of a sorts. A Hufflepuff trio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to live in our world, thoroughly

**Author's Note:**

> pretty much inspired by chats with steph, so this is for steph
> 
> shout out to iknowthisseemscrazy for reminding me that an american biscuit and a british biscuit are very, very different things.

See, Monty might be younger, but that doesn’t make him different in any way. The thought’s ridiculous, and Bellamy and Wells have snorted and waved away thinly veiled insults about hanging out with someone a year younger for _years_. It doesn't matter to them, so why should it matter to him? They save him as a first year, when first Sorted into Hufflepuff, when some kids poking fun at him for being scrawny and looking little underfed. Bellamy takes exception first, scrawny until he fills out in sixth year, and forces his way into sitting next to Monty.

“Eat,” he says, taking some pork roast and dumping it on his plate, piling so much food Monty thinks he’ll be sick if he eats it all. Wells takes the seat opposite, heaving a weary sigh that indicates how fond he is of Bellamy, his best friend.

“The gravy’s weak, so I don’t recommend it,” Wells chimes. “But do try the potatoes.”

And that’s it. They’re friends. Monty is amazed, naturally skinny, and inhales everything on the plate. He thinks he’ll get sick the moment he stands, and Wells and Bellamy laugh at the queasy expression, the latter slinging an arm around Monty’s shoulders.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, kid.”

“You’re only a year older,” Monty protests. “You’re, like, twelve and I’m eleven.”

“He calls me kid, too, so let it go. You’ve already lost.”

 

 

Things are a little wonky when Bellamy’s sister arrives at Hogwarts in Bellamy’s fourth year. Wells and Monty don’t find him until they reach the Great Hall for the welcoming feast. “Where were you?” Wells asks, sitting across from him. “We looked for ages.”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Bellamy says with gritted teeth. Wells and Monty exchange looks. Sometimes when Bellamy gets back to Hogwarts, like after break, or for the new school year, he's in a certain kind of mood, more irritable, faster to flare, but he settles down. He never talks about it, and neither Wells or Monty are the type to pry.

So they make light conversation, neither curious about the first years, but when “Blake, Octavia” is called, they both freeze. Moments later, the Sorting Hat calls out, “Gryffindor!” and the tension that had kept Bellamy upright disappears, and he caves in, arms bent on the table, head buried.

“You have a sister?” Monty asks.

“Yeah,” Bellamy mumbles through his arms. “I— I never told her. About Hogwarts. My mum kind of… got it, but I kept it from Octavia.”

Wells watches the dark-haired slip of a girl, hair long, eyes bright and eager, as she glances towards the Hufflepuff table as she makes her way to Gryffindor. Clarke, his childhood friend, catches his glances and raises an eyebrow and Wells jerks his chin upwards. Immediately, Clarke beckons for the younger Blake and Octavia joins Clarke with a timid smile. From the distance, Wells can sort of see similarity. It’s not the coloring, not just the dark hair, but the posture, the defensive set of her shoulders. It reminds him of Bellamy.

“That’s rough, man,” Monty sympathizes. “I’m an only child, so…”

“Me too,” Wells chimes in, though it’s a half-truth. He and Clarke were raised like siblings. “Don't worry, Bellamy, she’ll come around to it.”

Bellamy grumbles from his self-made cocoon and only reappears after food appears. “Bros, I’m starving. Let’s dig in.”

 

 

It’s windy and dark when Bellamy ‘meets’ Clarke. They’re in Herbology, and Clarke narrowly saves Bellamy’s fingers and yells at him afterwards.

“It was amazing,” he says, a little dreamily. “She was so angry.”

“They’ve been in class together for five full years,” Wells tells Monty. “This is not their first time meeting.”

Bellamy, always impulsive, smashes his hand into Wells’ food, getting cheese from the mac’n’cheese all over his hand, takes some and smears it onto his best friend’s robe. Wells stares down at the yellow all over his front in shock.

“You not being romantic,” Bellamy says testily, “is not a free pass to shit on me for being one.”

“Was this necessary?” Wells demands, indicating the mess. “Really?”

“But he _is_ a romantic,” Monty says, cross-legged, sipping his juice. “Haven’t you seen his poetry book?”

Wells and Bellamy give Monty looks of equal shock and horror. “You weren’t supposed to tell,” Wells hisses.

“You never told me,” Bellamy accuses. “We’re _best friends_.”

“Monty wasn’t supposed to know either.”

Bellamy’s mouth drops. “That’s not an excuse!” The argument is getting the attention of others around them, though the duo doesn’t notice. Monty doesn’t care.

“I just like poetry, okay? No big deal.”

“No,” Bellamy says, jaw jutting, pouting. “If you want to make it up to me, you have to help me write Clarke poetry. Only then will we be okay.”

“What? No!”

“Fine. I’m—” Bellamy glances around, at his cheese-covered hand and then Wells’ robe. “I’ll start a food fight.”

Wells narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“You know I started that food fight in fourth year.”

With a sigh, Wells agrees. “Fine. I’ll help— help, mind you, I’m not writing it for you. Clarke would know immediately.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Are you— are you kidding me?”

“Wells, class is gonna start soon, so you might want to go and change, quick.”

“Ugh,” Wells says with a groan. “Can’t I just ditch the robe?”

“You have Potions next and you _know_ Anya’s strict as hell.”

“Okay, see you in class— but don’t you think for a second, Monty, that this isn’t your fault.” Wells hisses the last part as he leaves.

“Do you really have no clue? Why Wells can’t write it himself?” Monty asks, sipping his juice, ignoring Wells’ empty threat. “I mean, it’s pretty much common knowledge.”

“What is?”

“Oh, man.” Monty sighs, a hand going to his chest. “You’re hopeless. Also pretty narrow-sighted when it comes to stuff like this. Wells and Clarke are childhood friends.”

Bellamy’s jaw drops. “He— knows Clarke, then, this is _perfect_ , oh, Merlin, thanks Monty, gotta go.” He crams a last bite of his mac’n’cheese into his mouth and then dashes off, spoon clattering onto his plate.

Monty finishes his juice.

 

 

Monty is sick and Wells had a single scone before dashing off to the library for an essay, so Bellamy starts breakfast lonely. This happens, sometimes, since he has both the best constitution of the three, as well as taking first place in grade A bullshitting. He likes the library well enough, but dislikes the feeling that he’s _supposed_ to be there, that he’s required to go, instead of going for the simple pursuit of knowledge. When he told Wells this, Wells rolled his eye and patted his shoulder, said, “such a rebel, you, I bet you’d give your life for the Library of Alexandria.” To which, Bellamy had replied, “well, _yeah_.”

So Bellamy sits there, alone, hale and healthy with excellently written but mostly half-assed essays in his bag. He butters his scones and has buttered exactly one for Monty, who prefers his absolutely _slathered_ , before he remembers and puts the scone aside. Sometimes, buttering Monty’s scones makes him sick with all that butter.

Then Octavia takes a seat in front of him and, for just a moment, everything in the world feels close to perfect. His best friends aren’t there, but Octavia is there, looking at him steadily, in the eyes, the way she hasn't in months. They've talked, since, but something in their relationship had cracked, and Bellamy hadn’t known how to fix it.

“You looked lonely,” she says, ducking her head and serves herself some eggs with cheese. “That’s all.”

“O," he says, throat suddenly choked.

Before he can get anything out, Octavia starts talking. “So, I’ve made friends,” and so starts a long ramble that reminds him of their childhood, walking to the park hand-in-hand, and how she chattered about animals, trees, anything, and he swallows hard to keep tears in his eyes. Octavia would be embarrassed if he cried.

 

 

Sometimes Raven joins them for breakfast, but she's more likely to find them at dinner.

“Listen," Bellamy says, leaning forward, gesturing with a chicken finger. “I’m not saying you’re too good for him, but you’re too good for him. For everyone, really.” He pauses, takes a bite of the finger. “Except maybe Wells.”

Wells sips his tea, an evening chamomile. “What about Clarke?”

Bellamy’s face clouds over and Raven snorts. “We’re not talking about Clarke.”

“He’s a great kisser though,” Raven says thoughtfully, taking some of the chips off Wells’s plate. “And I mean, like, _great_. Almost makes him good enough.”

“But not quite?”

"Well," she says, crunching her chips, “he’s great kissing-wise, but shit bed-wise.”

Bellamy bites his tongue instead of the chicken finger, but is so surprised he doesn’t complain. “Raven—”

“I can see that,” Monty says with a nod. “He seems the type to be all about his own orgasm.”

“Monty!” Bellamy gasps.

“What?”

“You know what,” Bellamy says loudly. “This is not lunch-time conversation and I am excusing myself.”

“Wait, you need my Arithmancy notes, let me pull them out.”

“It’s not that,” Raven says, delicately biting a chip in half, one pinky up. “It’s more— well, first of all, hardly any foreplay, and he has this thing that we could only ever do it in a bed. More specifically, my bed or his. Like, really? Shit, son, we’re at Hogwarts, be a little more creative.”

Bellamy makes a strangled noise. Raven sneers at him. “Like you haven’t had fantasies of having sex with Clarke in the kitchens.”

“I have not!” Bellamy shouts, and Wells finally gets his notes out. “Classrooms are—” He stops, blush spreading, and grabs the notes before fleeing.

“Kinky,” Monty murmurs.

“It’s the chalkboards,” Wells says. “He also has this thing for the library. You should ask him sometimes. Some of his fantasies are pretty detailed.”

 

 

It became a Thing back in Monty’s second year that he nicks the best food for the trio. “My mom’s an actual chef, better than the house elves,” he says in explanation when, somehow, the best sausages, hash browns, and bacon end up on Wells and Bellamy’s plates. “I’ve got an eye for this.”

The problem with the Thing is that Monty does not just the nick from serving platters. Incidents at Hufflepuff happen all the time where Monty stops by in the morning, with a friendly pat on the back, or a moment where he hops next to them, and then all of a sudden there’s a sausage gone, the prettiest pancake, and so on. A fair amount never notice, just think they’re forgetful, but some learn to guard their plates zealously when Monty comes by. Funny thing, though, is that he still manages.

The Thing becomes such a Thing that, with some egging on from Wells and Bellamy, Monty extends the nicking to other tables. He takes from Jasper and Nate from Slytherin—the former gullible, the latter indulgent—and makes it a game of trying to take Raven’s bacon. She’s onto his tricks from the start and that becomes Thing 2: the Quest to Steal from Raven, and eventually sneaks his way into Clarke’s friendship with help from Wells and takes her waffles.

Bellamy is outraged.

“What’re you doing, Monty?” he asks, mid-February with an appropriately dreary sky above them, buttering Monty’s second scone with murderous intent. “Stealing her waffles and not stealing her _over here_?”

“I could invite her to join us,” Monty responds, cutting today’s waffle up before drizzling it with syrup.

“Clarke,” Wells suddenly yells. Clarke’s head whips towards them, and Bellamy finds that he’s lost his voice suddenly, jaw clenching tight in an effort to keep it from dropping. He doesn't even know how Clarke _heard_ Wells over the din, but Wells is gesturing for her to join them, and his face is fucking _smirking_ when he turns back to Bellamy.

“Here’s your chance to try that poetry of yours,” Wells teases as Clarke makes her way towards them, Bellamy’s eyes glued to her.

“If you stare too much, she’ll think you’re creepy,” Monty says through a mouthful of waffle.

“Too late,” Wells says with a chuckle. “He moons after her in class all the time.”

Bellamy gives them cutting glares, and then Clarke squeezes in to sit next to Wells. “Merlin, wow, Hufflepuff’s food looks so much better than Gryffindor’s. Why do you keep stealing my food?” This, she directs to Monty, who shrugs.

“Thrill of the game,” Wells supplies, then kicks Bellamy under the table. He sputters, bobs his head and pretends to be Very Busy eating his breakfast.

“Thanks for the past pancakes,” Monty says.

“Only ‘cause you’re so cute,” Clarke replies with a smile and a twinkle in her eye that sets Bellamy’s heart beating faster as she serves.

Breakfast ends soon after that, Clarke and Wells casually talking about class, about a group project for Transfiguration, and Bellamy hasn't said anything, just kept his head down, resolutely not looking at Clarke. When Clarke ducks away first, Wells sighs at his best friend. “Man, you gotta do better than that. Can you hold any sort of conversation?”

Bellamy, head resting in one hand, the other aimlessly pushing bits of soggy waffles on his plate, sighs. “I’d fuck it all up.”

“The way things are right now, there’s nothing _to_ fuck up if you don’t step up. You two talk fine in class whenever paired up, so what’s wrong with you?”

The hand holding his head up moves to run down his face, then back up again to cover his eyes for a moment. “I’m leaving.”

Wells watches him leave, nonplussed, then glances at Monty. “On the topic of romance—”

“Yeah,” Monty cuts in, “on the topic of romance, what’s with you and Raven?”

Wells’s eyes widen. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Dude, your poetry is one-hunted percent a dead giveaway.”

“P-poetry—” Wells screeches. “I hid that book! Where—how—why!”

“Look, Wells, cut Bellamy some slack, yeah? He’s got it rough.”

“What do you mean?”

Monty stares. “You _do_ know that she has a boyfriend, right?”

Wells frowns. “No. She doesn’t.”

“Seriously, _Merlin_ , am I the only one around here who notices _anything_? It’s some Slytherin guy, Finn or whatever. She doesn’t really want people to know, but I caught them making out.”

“Finn?” Wells echoes weakly. “As in Finn Collins?”

“Yeah, so you know him.”

Yes, Wells knows him. A year above them, excellent at Defense Against the Dark Arts, long, wavy hair, a charmer. “Does Bellamy know this? Does _Raven_?”

Monty shoots him a strange look. “Not that it’s Finn, no, but Clarke’s got that taken look about her. What does Raven have to do with this?”

“Finn’s _Raven’s_ boyfriend, oh, bloody fuck, the one we talk about, this is—” The warning bell for class goes off and both young men startle. “I’ve got— Herbology,” Wells finishes faintly, “gotta go.”

“We’ll sort this out later, yeah?”

Wells nods affirmative, and both leave.

 

 

Raven and Clarke officially “meet” by accident. Raven is sitting with them for lunch, eating Monty’s fries, and Clarke needs to borrow History of Magic notes from Bellamy. They freeze when they spot each other because of course they know each other, but they haven’t talked since the blow-up at the beginning of the year when Finn’s misdeeds went public.

“Sit down,” Wells says, gently, and Bellamy shifts to make room. The two women sit across from each other, Clarke more rigid than Raven. Monty, in an attempt to alleviate, steals fries from Raven’s plate. Raven laughs, and it’s only quasi-forced.

“That was the first and last time,” Raven teases. “I hope you enjoyed those fries.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The mood settles, Clarke asks for the notes, and then stays. When lunch is over, and they all start getting up to go, Clarke tentatively sticks a hand out. “Friends?”

Raven stare at the hand, raises an eyebrow, grabs the hand and pulls Clarke forward, over the table, to give her a rough hug. “Friends.”

 

 

Then, one day, Wells and Raven say goodbye with a kiss and Bellamy and Monty stare at Wells, gob-smacked, as Raven walks away.

“You saw my poetry,” Wells says pointedly to Monty. “Don’t act surprised.”

“I have every right to be surprised,” Monty huffs. “You just kissed Raven goodbye. It was so… _domestic_. For some reason I thought you’d be kinkier, with that uptight attitude.”

Wells gives Monty a deadpan stare. “Out of the three of us, you’re probably the kinkiest, so don’t start.”

“How come I had no idea?” Bellamy says, loud, grabbing their attention. “Why do I never have a clue?”

“Entranced by golden curls?” Wells suggests in a mild tone.

“Or perfectly pink luscious lips?”

Bellamy’s face contorts, opens his mouth, but closes it. "It's more complicated than that. She— I—” His face closes off then. “I’m going to class.”

“What’s up with him?” Monty asks Wells when Bellamy’s out of ear-shot.

Wells shrugs. “Not sure, but maybe we should cool it with the teasing.”

 

 

Monty discovers what’s up with Bellamy when he slides in next to Clarke, who is blearily serving herself eggs with sausage one morning, early spring of his fifth year. She mutters a good-morning, before digging in, and he surveys the spread at the Gryffindor table and is about to admit defeat, that the Hufflepuff offerings are far better today, when Octavia takes the seat across from them.

“Morning,” she says, pouring herself some orange juice. “Monty, right? You’re one of Bellamy’s best friends.”

“Yeah,” Monty says, taking a fork and stealing some of Clarke’s food. “Octavia, the little sister.”

“What,” she says, brightening, “does he talk about me?”

Monty swallows the eggs. He doesn’t, but she looks like she _wants_ him to have done so, which would be better for their relationship? But he’s honest, and doesn’t lie. “Nah, he’s the stoic and silent type.” Octavia snorts, sips her juice, and Monty does like her, in a friendly sort of way. He can see resemblance, in the dark curls, expressive faces, the eyebrow lift. How have they not before now? He can’t recall passing her in the halls, nor can he recall her sitting here, with Clarke. “Are you and Clarke close?”

“Friends since my first year,” Octavia says proudly, like it’s something to be proud of, and it takes a moment for Monty to admit that, yeah, it is: Clarke’s a friend to be proud of.

“Wait,” Clarke says, the word drawn out. Monty knew she wasn’t a morning person, but this it the cherry. “You and Bell are siblings?”

Octavia shrugs, nods. Monty mouths the nickname— _Bell_. Did something happen? Something definitely happened. Something _Bell_ hasn’t deigned to share.“I’m the better Blake.”

“Never knew,” Clarke mutters and goes through her plate.

Monty excuses himself and joins Wells and Bellamy, arguing the finer points of how to get away sleeping in DaDA. “The arm up is an important tactic,” Bellamy argues. “Especially now that we’re older. We can look studious, while catching up on sleep.”

“I see your point, but Wallace would know you’re not taking notes. You just need to sleep, screw the consequences. Make it blatant enough you need the sleep, and he’ll let you.”

Monty picks up the scone for him, butter getting on his fingers, and starts tearing off little pieces, dropping them onto the plate. A moment later, Bellamy snatches the scone.

“This is a grave insult to my buttering,” he says mock gravely, though the poorly concealed levity disappears as he sees Monty’s face. “What’s up?”

“This has to do with your sister,” he says. “The whole Clarke thing, it’s about your sister, isn’t it?”

“Never mind,” Bellamy says, face closing, and stands up. He tosses the scone back, and it skitters off Monty’s plate and onto the table. “You can have your scone.”

“Wait, Bellamy,” Wells says, grabbing his arm and pulling him down. “I think we need to talk.”

“There’s nothing _to_ talk about, and I want to go.”

“You’re running away,” Wells hisses, and yanks Bellamy’s arm. “Please, sit down.”

“Octavia’s friends with Clarke and you don’t want to intrude. Even though you _know_ she’d say yes if you asked her out. She calls you _Bell_.”

Wells nods in dawning understanding and Bellamy sits down, face sullen. “Ah, I see. You want her to have her own life, you don’t want her to think you’re taking everything for yourself.”

“That’s not it,” Bellamy protests. “I’m— I’m no longer interested, that’s all. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Wells says with affection. “You’d rather Octavia be happy than see yourself happy.”

“Not true,” Bellamy quickly replies, but his defense is weak.

“You kept Hogwarts from her for three years, and you don’t want to take one of the best friends she’s made here.”

“Dating isn’t taking away though,” Monty interjects. “Has Wells taken Raven away by dating her?”

Bellamy’s mouth sets, mulish, flat. “Look, there’s no point in trying to change my mind, so—”

“So we’re right,” Wells presses, immediately, and slings an arm around Bellamy’s shoulders. “You’ve been pining after Clarke for years now, and—”

“She calls you Bell,” Monty interjects. “ _Bell_. No one else calls you by nickname.”

“You should give it a shot,” Wells says. “Just ask her out, and know that it’s okay, and that Octavia won’t mind. She’s several years younger, there’s no way Clarke’s her best friend or anything.”

“Maybe I will,” Bellamy says. “Maybe, but not… Not today.”

 

 

Months pass, spring to summer to autumn, and Bellamy and Wells are seventh years, a Head Boy badge pinned to the latter’s robes. Monty and Bellamy tease him as they settle in the Great Hall, but they both admit that it suits him.

“Wells Jaha, Head Boy wonder,” Bellamy says immediately afterwards. “Protector of small children, guider of gremlins.”

Wells frowns. “What’s a gremlin?”

Monty snorts. “Don’t tell him. It’s funnier this way.”

“Didn’t I make you watch that movie when we were thirteen or something?”

Wells shrugs. “You’ve made me watch a lot of movies.”

Something happens at that moment, because Bellamy tenses, sitting straighter, more perpendicular. “She’s here,” he breathes.

“Who?” Monty asks while Wells glances around.

“Ah, Clarke? Why— ah.” Wells cuts himself off, a grin spreading. “About time.”

“Could do with some Liquid Luck, but here goes nothing.” For a moment, Wells considers telling him to wait, until after the Sorting, after the Welcoming Feast, but there’s determination in his best friend’s eyes, something curling at the corners of his mouth, and he refrains.

“A galleon she says yes,” Monty says, both of them watching Bellamy stride over. Clarke is just sitting down, talking with a brunette friend.

“I’m not betting against my best friend’s happiness,” Wells counters, then extends a hand. “A galleon they kiss today.”

Monty considers, then shakes it. “A galleon they make-out in the library within a week.”

“First date is a study-date.”

“Raven and Clarke team up to whip you two into shape.”

Wells turns to stare at his other best friend, aghast. “Wait a second—” he begins hotly, but Monty doesn’t even bother to look at him, and instead grips Wells’s shoulder, eyes wide.

“Shit,” Monty murmurs and Wells quickly turns to see Bellamy smile the widest he’s ever seen, arms tucking around Clarke’s waist, hers already around his neck. It takes a moment, but then Bellamy dips down to kiss her, blushing. There’s a wolf-whistle, and Wells echoes it immediately and Monty cheers.

 

 

They’re a gross couple, and Clarke sometimes sits in Bellamy’s lap. One disastrous morning, Clarke butters the scones and does it wrong. The disaster ends in setting ground rules about who can touch what food, in what way they can touch it, and serving guidelines. “Monty always wants more meat, and Wells likes carb-y food, like bread, and pancakes,” Bellamy says to her, when they’re eating at the Gryffindor table. They’re tucked into each other, Wells with Raven at Ravenclaw and Monty hanging with Slytherin friends. “We take our food very seriously.”

“Almost too seriously,” Clarke replies, bemused, still remembering the horrified expressions on the trio’s faces when she had given Wells a well-buttered scone.

“Hey,” Bellamy says, pressing a quick kiss to her jaw. “Better too passionate than not passionate enough.”

“You made that up,” she says, poking him in the side. “No making shit up.”

At the Ravenclaw table, Wells is recounting the story for an amused Raven.

“She buttered your scone?” Her eyebrows waggle. “Want me to butter your scone?”

“Raven, darling, I’d like to see you try to best Bellamy’s scones. Try, then fail.”

She laughs, lightly, and Wells seizes the opportunity and snags her partially eaten hamburger. “I will succeed,” he says around his own bite, “where Monty fails.”

“Stop!” Raven shrieks with laughter. “That’s mine! You give that back, or we’re going to have our own dining ground rules.”

“Yes,” Wells says, returning the hamburger and adopts a serious mien. “Your food is my food.”

“And vice versa.”

He smirks. “We’ll see.”

 

 

Wells and Bellamy graduate. It’s sad and all, and for a moment the trio is concerned that no one’s going to ruin it, make some smart-ass remark, trip, or _something_ , but then Bellamy innocently says, “try to butter your scones correctly or I’ll be very upset with you.”

A competition starts without either realizing. “I know you like stealing food, but try and maybe not do that so much?”

“I’ll write and tell you the classes you don’t need to attend.”

Wells glares at Bellamy. “And I’ll write to make sure you’re attending class appropriately.”

Bellamy winks. “I’ll send you the notes.”

Wells rounds on Monty then, and he raises his hands in mild defense. “If you don’t go to class, I’m sending you Howlers.”

“Jeez, okay, I get it, you’ll miss me,” Monty says with a cheeky grin. “Cool your jets. I’ll miss you too.”

It’s still very sad and all, and Monty hotly denies any accusation that he cried, because those two losers needed him, not the other way around, but moments later quietly admits that he really does hope he gets those letters, howlers and all.

 

 

 

Monty is a few months shy of graduation, still as lonely at his first return, when Nate asks him out. He says no, bewildered from the sudden declaration of affection, and Nate shrugs and hands over a scone Monty thought he’d been buttering for himself. “We’re close to leaving, so I thought I’d give it a shot. No regrets and all.” Monty takes the scone and absently takes a bite. It’s buttered just right, almost as good as Bellamy’s. Nate starts buttering another one, this one for himself, eyes focused on the task. For a moment, Monty almost regrets saying no, but then he remembers that, yeah, little to no time left, best not to start a relationship now.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like this/me come find me at [my tumblr](rosycheeked.tumblr.com). btw a sequel is very likely.


End file.
